The Silent Minority

by S. Poulos

you finish with your baking duties in the morning, he will be gone."

  "That is a problem."

  "Unless..."

  "Unless what?"

  "Unless you make the same trick as the old baker... the last few months when he was not very able, he used to bake every two days."

  "Then it means I will have to compromise."

  "This is what I mean."

  They entered the dinner hall. Today's main course was fasoulada, kind of a bean soup, olives, salted sardines, feta, and tomatoes and cucumber salad topped with lots of onions and a cup of red wine, in fact, the red wine was a must for every dinner. That night Michael lay in his bunk thinking. Could this be real? In such a short time he had his bakery, the opportunity for learning to fish, food and shelter. All these nice people, with this magnificent scenery, and an easy pace of life, surrounded him. He remembered his grandfather telling him, when he used to go and help him, that to bake a really good bread, it has to be done in a wooden oven. Even this opportunity had materialized here. All of this, because of one little scooter not starting! Could that be a coincidence? Is that an omen, or what? He must be the luckiest man in the world, he thought, and then he drifted, drifted, and slept peacefully.

  The bell rang, and eagerly he got up to go to work.

  He mixed the flour the way his grandfather taught him, and started to knead. It was not long after that, that the young monk arrived. He showed the rookie how to make the fire, how long to wait for the oven to get hot, and how to empty the burned wood out of the oven and clean it. Finally, they put the dough in it and sealed the door.

  They sat on the bench next to the oven watching the sun appearing slowly out of the sea. It was such a beautiful moment that they would not dare talk, fearing it would spoil this magic time.

  Finally the young monk asked Michael, "What were you doing back home, before your job at the television station?"

  "I was a law student," he said. "I nearly finished it, but it was hard financially, so I started this job in the television station thinking of saving money to continue with my studies, or open a bakery shop like my grandfather."

  The sun came up and the time came to unseal the oven. They looked inside anxiously and what a marvelous scene; beautifully colored golden brown breads perfectly baked with a symphony of marvelous aromas. They were hot, but Michael was eager to try some. He managed to break a piece and gave half to his friend. It was just fantastic. The smell as they unsealed the door and pulled out the bread travelled quickly all over the monastery. It was some time now since they smelled such beautiful aromas, so slowly the monks started to trickle in to see their new baker at work.

  Half of the monastery's monks were there, even the Geronda; they all tasted the bread while it was steaming hot. Everyone loved it but the one that really was elated was the Geronda. He congratulated Michael saying although it was still too hot to judge, he thought it must be one of the best breads he had ever tried.

  Michael had passed his first test with flying colors.

  That night Michael felt on top of the world. He felt contented, satisfied, and fulfilled.

  Next day everyone smiled at him and he could see he was the talk of the monastery, in a very favorable way. Then he saw the young monk coming in a hurry towards him and he said, "You know about the fishing thing we were talking about?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, I thought about it. You seem to be so keen learning about fishing. Apparently on Sundays it is the day off for everyone, even for you. Everyone must attend the Sunday services, except... guess who?"

  "Don't tell me... the fisherman?"

  "Exactly."

  "And how is that? Why is he excluded?"

  "It is tradition, I think because of the weather. Sometimes you cannot fish during the weekdays, and you can do it on Sundays I suppose. Anyway, I talked to the fisherman-monk, and he said he will be happy to teach you every Sunday and so..."

  "And so, what?"

  "You will kill two birds with one stone."

  "What do you mean?"

  "If you would not go fishing that means, you would have to go to Sundays services, and as I understand, it sounds all Greek to you...you got me?"

  "You are brilliant! You are the smartest guy I have met, and I don't know how to thank you."

  "Don't thank me yet, it still has to be approved by the Geronda. He is strict with it; he insists that everyone must attend the services on Sundays except the fisherman-monk."

  So off they went to see the Geronda. He was sitting under a tree drinking Greek coffee.

  The young monk explained to the Geronda all about why they came to see him, and when the Geronda heard it, he said, "Yes... I know, he can do it, and I am sure that he will make a good fisherman also."

  Happily they left the Geronda to enjoy his Greek coffee.

  A few days already had passed since Michael baked his first bread, including one Sunday, which gave him the opportunity to go fishing with the fisherman-monk. It was a day he really enjoyed. Although there was lack of communication due to the language barrier, it was really a blessing, for it needed not to be cut by unnecessary human talk. These serene tranquil moments were those of bygone ages engulfed by time; the kind some of the postcards tried to depict. No, those were really sacred moments, which could be absorbed only by silence and by all the senses of man. You could smell the water and the seaweed; you could see the blue sea and sky above you with the little port of Scala completing the perfect picture. You could touch the water if you allowed your hand to slip on the edge of the boat, and you could even taste the iodized salt of the water after a while when the gentle breeze sometimes would spit some mist in your face.

  No, this was not time to talk; it was a time to let your senses have their say, to let your senses run wild in the most subtle way. It was a time of silence, and absorption.

  That day, Michael did not practice much fishing. Mostly, he was just watching. The fisherman-monk sensed it, and did not bother him at all. He was doing what he had to do, and Michael was just watching. He knew he would have ample time to practice in the future. This was only the first day.

  Every day, after Michael finished with his baking duties, he would wander in the vegetable garden, which was adjacent to his bakery, and help the gardener. He was an old monk, whom Michael would find every day from sunrise to sunset, caring for his vegetables; weeding, loping, and shuffling about, he was an ever unstoppable busy bee. His hands could prove that, through the callus and deformity of some of his fingers. Who knows for how many years these hands had been immersed deep into this Earth.

  Michael would help the man by doing some weeding, carrying the baskets of the vegetables to the kitchen, bringing manure in a cart for him and more. The old man was very pleased with him and would show it with a big broad smile.

  The Geronda would visit the garden sometimes, to chat with the old gardener, and seeing Michael helping also in here was so pleased that he never ever questioned his abilities and his honesty any more. In fact, every time a new arrival would come, except for the main work that he would have to perform daily, the Geronda would add various other errands to everyone, such as helping washing the dishes, gathering the rubbish, cleaning the toilets etc. With Michael he made an exception this time, for he knew he deserved it.

  One day as he passed a shed with some unwanted junk, Michael noticed a big window with intact glass lying there. He went closer, and whispered to himself, "Exactly what I am looking for."

  He found a stick and measured it, and then he went behind his bakery where he would put the burned wood and he got a charcoal stick. He went back to the bakery, and with the charcoal he drew the window at the wall at the place he would like to be. Then he went around back again, and when he was sure that the oven would not interrupt the view, he could not possibly wait. He went to the young monk, asking him to interpret something to the Geronda.

  "Interpret what?" Anastasios asked.

  "You will see," Michael said. "Be patient."


  The old man was again in his favorite spot under the tree, sitting on a chair reading a scripture, and on the table were a Greek coffee, and a glass of water.

  "Geronda," said the young monk; "Can we interrupt you for something?"

  "Yes, what is it?"

  "I don't know, I only came to interpret."

  "Well, do it then."

  He turned to Michael, and asked, "What should I say?"

  "You cannot say, I have to show him something."

  "Geronda, we have to show you something."

  "Now?"

  Michael looked to the coffee cup, and as it was empty, he told the young monk to say, "Now if you can."

  The old monk took his reading glasses off, put them in his pocket and said, "This better be something important," as he got up.

  "Is it something important?" Anastasios asked Michael.

  "For me it is."

  They reached at the shed with the junk, and rookie showed the window to the old man.

  "This."

  "Yes."

  Then Michael started walking again, until they reached the bakery. They went inside, and he showed the drawing on the wall, saying, "Here!"

  The old man, fondling his beard asked curiously, "Why?"

  Then the rookie decided to say half of the truth.

  He turned to the young monk and told him, "I will tell you the half-truth. Tell the Geronda, that if we open a window here, then we will be able to put a board here, and I will slide the bread direct to the oven, instant of carrying the loaves around by hand."

  "That is good idea," the young monk said. "Last time when I